Cowboy Casanova
by TheGuardianOfDragons
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is the landlord of a popular Saloon, The Blue-Eyed Snake, making a living and trying to forget his past. But what happens when he becomes the next prey of one of the most dangerous outlaws in the West, Alfred F. Jones? Will he escape, or will he be ensnared by the talons of the Eagle? USUK, set in mid 1800s America.
1. An Unexpected Visit

Arthur sighed, straightening his tie and waistcoat in front of the mirror. He ran his fingers through his straw blond hair, attempting to flatten it slightly from its usually messy look, but to no avail. The hairs sprung up into their place each time he tried, and eventually he gave up. Opening the wooden window shutters, the early morning sunlight poured into the room. It illuminated the small wooden bed in the corner, the small wardrobe and a few shelves, and the dressing table with a warm, peaceful glow. A fair contrast to the commotion that would later be outside the door. Of course, it's nothing new, it's an daily occurrence.

The Brit pushed open the bedroom door, stepping out into a fairly large room, filled with tables and chairs, a bar and stools. Above the saloon doors is a horned skull, he knew that much, but wasn't entirely sure which animal it belonged to. Some sort of bison or other large animal. He took up his usual position behind the bar, picking up a cloth and beer flagon, starting to clean it, humming softly to himself. Being the landlord of the most popular saloon in the town, The Blue-Eyed Snake, he had a reputation to hold of both clean tableware and not-so-clean tenders and saloon girls. Not too long after, a couple of the latter pushed through the saloon doors from their rooms, hips swaying gracefully, their crimson corsets around their waists and voluminous skirts brushed past their ankles when they walked. Arthur nodded at them as they arrived, taking their seats on the bar top, waiting for their 'clients' to arrive. They'd serve the customers drinks, food, dance entertainment as well as... other entertainment in the rooms at the back. Of course, Arthur did none of that unless they were very short on staff, though he did give out drinks. Sometimes he stayed behind the bar, other times he'd serve individual tables. Sometimes they'd even pay double, and he couldn't resist an offer like that.

The saloon soon filled up, cowboys from both in the town and outside of town; various button ups, chapped trousers, spurred boots, topped off with Stetson hats and the occasional whip or lasso. Some in groups, others solo. Some went to their usual corners or tables, others walking straight to the bar to order drinks. The swinging doors would open, alternating directions a few times before falling still again. Arthur was busy, filling up flagons of beer across the bar top, cleaning new ones and clearing old ones. He was in the middle of serving one of his usual customers when the room went silent, everyone held their breath and looked towards the door. Arthur did the same, noticing a shadowed figure with his hands in his pockets, his hat pulled over his eyes. As he entered, all Arthur could hear was the heels of his boots clicking on the wooden floor boards and the spurs on the back rattling at each footstep. No one spoke as he reached the bar, taking a seat. He didn't speak at first, just placed some coins on the table top. And when he did, his voice was deep, mysterious, laced with hints you'd only hear from cowboys in Florida, or so Arthur had heard.

"Some o' your finest, if ya don't mind, darlin'." He glanced at Arthur, who nodded, pouring his glass and setting it down in front of him after taking the money. He didn't say anything after that, and looked down at the table. Standing in the doorway, he was silhouetted against the run's rays, but now Arthur could get a good look at this newcomer. He had a long sleeved white shirt on, the sleeves rolled up just above his elbows, looking rather dusty and well worn. There were a few rips here and there, and it was lazily tucked into his trousers. These were a dark brown, with a lighter beige around the thighs. These were also worn, thin around the knees and hips where he'd been seated on a saddle for so long. At least, that was what it looked like. They were held up with a leather belt, the silver buckle used and slightly rusted in places. He had some sort of brown leather waist coat, with white tassels on the chest pockets. There was something golden tucked into the left one, but Arthur couldn't tell quite what it was. From the hushed voices in the room, the landlord thought it best not to ask, especially as he still couldn't see the man's face. From what he could see under the tan leather hat, the man had untidy dirty-blond hair which stuck out carelessly, rather like Arthur's own. When the man spoke again he lifted the cap slightly, revealing piercing blue eyes which seemed to search the men around him, as if he were trying to seek someone out before turning back to the front. He downed the glass of beer and smirked, almost as if he were challenging others to do the same.

"As good as they say," he drawled slowly, as if he were deliberately trying to be seductive. Arthur rolled his eyes and smiled faintly, ignoring the shiver the man gave him.

"Thank you," he replied, "we do have a reputation to keep here."

"Oh yeah, quite the reputation," one of the men in the back jeered, encouraging chuckles from some others in the room before the voices started to rise again. As if cued, one of the saloon girls switched on the record machine, hips swaying provocatively as she leant against it. Her heels clicked as she walked and her hair was drawn over her shoulder.

"I don't see anyone complaining." Arthur muttered under his breath, going to turn around. He felt a hand on his wrist. It was the man again. "What?" Arthur said, annoyed, even more so when the man just laughed.

"What sort of reputation?" he asked, raising a blond eyebrow, "Because I've heard it's quite the attraction for... tourists." He laughed again, letting go and resting both hands on the counter top, swirling his empty glass around.

"If you're ever lonely, this is the place to go," someone else said, before he busied himself with the woman in his lap. Arthur sighed, feeling the grin of some of the men in the room. It wouldn't take long for people to realise what they meant.

"Buy a drink, rent a room, or get out." Arthur said simply, before directing his attention to the man still watching him. His smile was secretive, like he was hiding something. He stood up, and tilted his hat slightly.

"Until next time," he winked, before turning on his heel and strutting out, but not before grabbing what looked like a wanted poster and stuffing it in his pocket. Before Arthur could question or protest, he was gone. Just like that, away with the wind.

"Who was that man?" Arthur asked the man beside him at the bar, Matthew. He was an old friend of Arthur's, though no one knew much about him or where he came from.

"His name is Alfred F. Jones," Matthew replied curtly, leaning against the counter. "Known by many as the Eagle of the west, he's bad news."

What came next was a surprise to Arthur, and he could almost hear the warning in his voice.

"And you're his next meal."


	2. The Eagle Returns

The next few days go by relatively quietly, no unexpected visits and few stand offs in the streets. Arthur was accompanied by the saloon regulars, going about his business as normal. Despite spending the evenings wondering what Matthew had meant by being this outlaw's next 'meal', during the day he did not spare it much thought. He could not afford to, and he was sure that the man would not be in town any longer, so he doubted he would get a returning visit. Unperturbed by the news, Arthur just shrugged it off and smiled, no normal person would 'prey' on others. That was just... wrong. The Briton quickly brushed away those thoughts as Matthew sent him a questioning look, waving him away even though an itching feeling in his mind told him that the stranger was no normal human being. These feelings came often over the next couple of days, much to Arthur's distaste.

It was late in the evening that Arthur finally closed up the pub for the night, shutting the doors behind a bunch of rowdy ranchers. They'd spent most of the afternoon laughing and joking, and the man couldn't help but listen in to their conversations. They were not exactly being discreet, after all. So, while cleaning some glasses and leaning on the bar counter with his back turned, he had listened in. Not eavesdropping, that was un-gentlemanly (and Arthur considered himself a gentleman).

"Hey, ya head about that one guy who stole ol' Joe's horse?" One of them said, taking a swig of the beer in front of him.

"Apparently he got chased out of his own town for the same thing. He's a flippin' menace. Killed a man an' all to get away." Another added, raising his own glass. "An' now he's here."

Arthur listened closely, his ears strained in hopes to catch the information.

"An' he gets away with it all by wooin' the ladies. Girlfriends, even wives! And the occasional guy too, from what I've heard. Gets around an' all that."

"Not surprised, he's quite the looker." the first said, and the others mumbled their agreements.

Arthur bristled, and surprised himself by it. So he wasn't the first, of course he wasn't. And that disappointed him in a way. So he get out of trouble by flirting, huh? It was understandable, he certainly had the build and smirk to help in this... endeavour, if it could even be called that. Though he didn't even know if it was the same man as before.

"Blue eyes, blond hair, ego the size of America. An' probably a little more." Yes, it was him. But who was 'him', anyway?

Later that evening, Arthur decided to take a walk through the town after closing, jacket pulled around him and his hands in his pockets. He walked towards the town hall, the place where most of the events were recorded before written in the telegrams and news. He spotted Matthew standing outside by the door and waved, walking over.

After a friendly greeting and a little small talk, Matthew moved to the side to reveal a small notice board. On it was a yellowing, weathered piece of paper. It was an old Wanted poster, curled at the corners and ripped in a few places. The face was roughly sketched, but it was unmistakable. From the carved jaw and nose, to the dark eyes and grin which seemed to challenge anyone. The cowboy hat on the man's head rested at an angle, showing his light coloured hair. It was /him/. With a reward of $5,000, dead or alive, the name beneath it in capital letters seemed to etch itself into the back of Arthur's brain, 'Alfred Jones' with an 'F' carelessly scrawled over the top.

"Alfred F. Jones, eh? The one who calls himself the Eagle." he scoffed, glancing at Matthew, who wore a similar expression. The grin was burned into his eyelids, Arthur remembering the same grin worn by the outlaw when he first set foot in the saloon. It was teasing, mocking, as though he knew he was being admired. It was not one that could easily be avoided, nor an expression worn by anyone else in the same way. It suited him, if that was the right word.

"I guess so," he nodded, rolling his eyes. "Modest, much?" he added, drawing a quiet laugh from the both of them. The town was almost asleep now, and Arthur could afford to lower his stoic expression for a little while and relax, instead of keeping his business under control. The sun was setting, the darkened sky casting shadows over the dusty ground, seeping into the older buildings between the woodwork, rustling the dry brush and weeds. A small wind had picked up and Arthur subconsciously drawing the collar of his coat around himself.

"Five thousand dollars over his head, and the man has the cheek to turn up here?" he said, raising an thick eyebrow. Too bad the sheriff's out, or he'd be a dead man as soon as he set foot in the gate. And on a stolen horse? Man, he sure did have style. An irritatingly arrogant one at that.

Suddenly, a faint sound broke the silence, the steady pound of hooves against the dry ground. The peaceful night air became restless, like everything was cowering or running to hide in fear. A lizard skittered past Arthur's feet, darting, dashing and scampering out of the way. Though the two men couldn't see much at all, they knew that something was wrong. He strained his eyes, trying to make out anything that moved in the darkness. Thankfully, the moon lit up a fair part of the ground, a few of the buildings and the occasional cowboy coming home from a day out of town. But then it stilled once again.

As the sound of hoof beats grew louder, Arthur noticed a figure turn around the corner, sitting atop a black horse, as dark as the sky behind them. Though he knew exactly who it was, the moonlight illuminated their features both gracefully and ominously; piercing blue eyes and a familiar smirk.


	3. Prisoner

Arthur stiffened, his eyes widening as the figure dismounted and began to advance towards them, holding his horse by the reins. As he drew closer, Arthur could see that the horse was perhaps 14 hands high, maybe a little taller. Its coat was a deep ebony, shining in the moonlight. Surprisingly well kept for an outlaw's horse, Arthur thought. It stomped its foot impatiently, flicking at a moth with its tail.

A sly, drawling voice broke the silence, "Well, well, what purty catch do we have here? A bartender and his friend?" Halting in front of Arthur and Matthew, he chuckled, but there was no humour in it. Arthur shivered, the laugh almost menacing. He felt Matthew take a step back, making Alfred take a step forward, almost trapping them both so there was no way to get around.

"I've been watching you, Kirkland," he continued, "You're real interesting. I don't know about you, but I want you for myself." He grinned as Arthur backed away, shaking his head.

"No way!" He growled, glaring at the man in front of him, receiving another humourless laugh.

"I ain't givin' ya no choice, doll." He whispered, before reaching out to grab Arthur's wrist. Matthew pulled him out of the way just in time, and they both stumbled to the side and started running down the dirt track towards The Blue-Eyed Snake. Immediately they heard footsteps behind them, the metallic sound of spurs spinning and clicking with each footstep. Alfred was gaining on them quickly, Arthur could tell, and willed himself to push forward.

When the footsteps behind them ceased, Arthur kept going, his chest heaving. Had he given up? Or had he found a way to get ahead and was waiting for them to reach the saloon? Arthur didn't want to find out, but a glance behind him told the Brit that their pursuer was no longer behind them. The track was illuminated enough in this area to see quite a way in all directions. Arthur clutched his side, panting heavily and slowing to a walk. Matthew slowed down and walked with him, ushering him to the shadows of a building where they wouldn't be seen by unwanted eyes. Namely the outlaw who had just chased them halfway across town.

"What was that about?" Arthur hissed, but Matthew just shrugged. "I don't-" He cut himself off, purple eyes fearful. and a hand clamped over both of their mouths. The sound of spurs was back, too close for comfort.

"You know, running from someone who has spend the last ten years of their life running ain't the smartest idea ya could'a had." Alfred stepped into view, standing a few metres away, a length of rope looped multiple times over his shoulders.

Arthur just glared, narrowing his eyes and crossing his arms defensively. "What do you want?" He snapped, getting more irritated when the other just shrugged and walked towards them.

Alfred reached out, grabbing at Arthur's wrist, which he snapped out of the way. Alfred just chuckled and reached out for Matthew, who wasn't so lucky. He stumbled, tripping over a hidden rock in the ground. Arthur reached out to catch him, dropping his gaze from Alfred for a split second.

Within an instant, he felt a muscular arm grab around his waist, hoisting him up into the side of his body. Arthur yelled in shock, struggling and kicking as hard as he could in attempts to find some ground, preferably a shin or kneecap. But his efforts were futile, as Alfred just held him more firmly against his side, snickering in amusement. Matthew shouted after them, but it was useless. He was carried through the town towards the horse waiting nearby, struggling all the while. After being secured onto the said horse, Alfred mounted behind him and kicked off, cantering through the town towards the gate.

The ride was bumpy, and rather painful, attached to the saddle but in no comfortable position. But he didn't move, he couldn't, there was no way of escaping. They passed cacti, the occasional pack of animals which Alfred quickly avoided, tumbleweed and the odd brush. Sand and scorching heat for miles.

"You're losing your touch, Kirkland," Alfred laughed bitterly, "Weren't ya a master of escaping?"

Arthur grumbled indignantly, "No, I just didn't get caught.

Alfred laughed again, mockingly this time. "I used to be a hero, ya know? Ownin' my own ranch an' all."

Arthur slowed his struggling, listening.

"Got your interest, eh?" He continued, amused. "I was popular, people in the town loved me. I would'a inherited my father's farm, I would. But then he went an' got himself killed course, and the guy who did it went and blamed me. So not only did I lose the farm, there ain't no way I'm gonna get back in that town." He fell quiet, and did not speak again until they finally stopped, having travelled on the dirt track for an hour or two, Arthur suspected. He groaned as he was lowered from the horse, his back stiff and aching, flinching as Alfred held a firm grip on his arm.

"Don't even think about leaving, doll. Ya won't get far." He smirked, untying his satchel from the saddle with his free hand. He unloaded his goods onto the dusty floor, but not before tying Arthur to the nearest tree, the rope around his waist securely. Resistance did nothing, Arthur learnt quickly, as the rope just tightened.

Night drew in, and Alfred had lit a small camp fire, just big enough to cook some beans, most likely stolen, and drink whatever was in his hipflask. Arthur wasn't sure he wanted to know. He had cautiously accepted the small can of beans handed to him, though he wished he was in his Saloon, whiskey in hand and doing business as usual. Not that he would ever drink on the job, but it had been a while since he had had any alcohol in his system. Matthew had sometimes drank with him, well into the night until they were the only ones sitting at the bar. He hoped the Canadian was alright, safe and possibly sending help. He hadn't any family who would look for him, they were back across the sea, and probably didn't want anything to do with him anymore. With this thought in mind, he drifted into an uneasy sleep.


End file.
